


His Right Hand

by dreadwulf



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: F/M, Porn with Feelings, Post-Battle Sex, Table Sex, because it's me there are a lot of feelings, my first porn for this couple let's see how it goes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-18
Updated: 2019-02-18
Packaged: 2019-10-31 05:35:59
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,812
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17843462
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dreadwulf/pseuds/dreadwulf
Summary: After a desperate battle, Jaime and Brienne steal a few moments together.





	His Right Hand

**Author's Note:**

> I have written so much angst for Brienne and Jaime that I figure I owe the fandom some porn. It's been awhile since I did this sort of thing, so I may be a little rusty. And I got feelings everywhere, natch. 
> 
> This was originally posted on my Tumblr under the title "Command", with some mild revisions.

The battle has been vicious and hard-won, and there are times that Jaime wasn’t so sure they would survive the day. Their forces are vastly outnumbered by the armies of the dead, though the Lannister army holds the higher ground and more defensible position. The remainder of the North clearly finds it unlikely they will prevail. Jaime’s forces are to be a stop-gap at the Neck until a new plan can be developed, and he knows full well that he is a sacrifice they are willing to make.

His army, though, is _not_ a sacrifice _he_ is willing to make, and he owes them a victory. To his tremendous relief they have delivered it - not so much by destroying the enemy as dispelling them, splitting their forces with a desperate charge down the center and using their essential disorganization to shove the bulk of them into the sea on either side. If these creatures do swim, they have set out in all directions in dribs and drabs, and it will take some time for them to pull together again. The third section, the unthinkably vast horde that stretches into the horizon, appears to have scattered for now. Whether they have chased them back to pursue another strategy or only purchased a few days respite is unclear, but in any case it is a victory.

Brienne has been at his side all along, befitting her unofficial title of the Commander’s Right Hand. There is really no such thing as a Hand of the General - a King might have a Hand to enact the plans he cannot, but a commander should have two hands to act himself. But since he is missing a right hand, and since Brienne is ever-present at his side, the Lannister bannermen have taken to calling her that, and he doesn’t discourage it.

Brienne as his Hand doesn’t fully capture the rapport between them, but he doesn’t know any better words to describe it. She doesn’t take his commands, and he is as much enacting her intentions as she does his. She is never far from him in battle and the two of them fight as one unit, like the right hand and the left hand of some larger organism with one mind and will. They have no need to shout to each other on the field and fall into a perfect fighting rhythm nearly effortlessly, and their enemies flee before them as if from the Stranger himself. Together they mow down the dead until they lie in piles around them, cutting through their forces like a scythe through wheat.

Fighting with Brienne is satisfying in a way he has never experienced, and at times frightening in the same new way. If they should fall they will fall together, and that is a responsibility that he has never had to have for himself. His death in battle would be glorious but Brienne dying in battle would be an awful thing that he cannot allow to happen, and because of it he must be on guard for any injury to either of them.

It makes such contests both exhilarating and agonizing, particularly on a battlefield that will more than likely be their graves. When they took to this field it was with a solemn and wordless conviction that it could be their last, but with their soldier’s superstition neither would speak such a possibility aloud. Only the lingering touches they gave each other secretly, hands meeting over casual duties, revealed their worry. They have remained at the vanguard, at the spoke of the T that his army forms, and there has been no time to consider or consult from there, only to exchange glances and occasionally bear each other up between each wave of attackers.

They held the field a day and a night and most of another day before the enemy broke and scattered, and until he saw it with his own eyes he was not assured of their victory. Afterwards they passed through the trunk of the T and watched the dead stumbling backwards into the waves and gradually the disbelief faded into triumph and a space beyond exhaustion that is part breathless jubilation and part calm acceptance.

Now they are walking back into the camp in a tumult of officers and messengers and he is taking reports from a dozen men at once, and Brienne is quietly holding his right arm, the press of her fingers her only communication. Jaime will cover them with his own periodically, to let her know he is aware of her. He has too much business to attend in the aftermath to do any more than that, but what he would really like is to get her alone somewhere. Victory is coursing hotly through his veins and he wants nothing more than to hold her close, and to do more things besides. If he looks on her too long he will start to plan those things in great detail, so he squeezes her hand instead and avoids her face so that he might keep his composure a little longer.

There are voices shouting at him from all directions and other voices simply shouting for the sake of it, out of relief of a battle ended, and were he not so exhausted he might have done the same. It is frankly miraculous that they have held their ground and though he has never shown anything but perfect confidence that they will prevail, even Jaime is stunned at their victory.

When a messenger does pause to catch his breath, having run a long way to deliver his missive, Jaime dares a glance at Brienne and is thoroughly conquered by the look on her face. By comparison nothing else taking place at this moment could possibly matter, and all his soldiers and captains fade into the background.

He knows this look, though no one else would. It’s a certain quirk of her mouth and the way she chews her lip, how her long neck inclines to one side so that she can slide her eyes over him appraisingly, and what it means is that she wants him. He knows this look now and it never fails to thrill him, having produced it.

It’s well known that fighting has this effect on men; the proximity to death, the physical exertion, and the victory at great peril, it all tends to produce certain physical cravings afterwards. It’s why there are camp followers and drunken revels after a battle, so that soldiers can abandon themselves and find relief. Jaime has not expected the same effect on so proper a lady as Brienne, but she is a soldier after all and there is no mistaking the hungry look she is giving him.

“Rest first, lad,” he tells the tired messenger, “I’ll hear your bulletin once you have your voice back.” He signals sharply for his lieutenants to fall back and indicates with what he hopes is not too obvious distraction that he will meet with them later.

Then Jaime grabs Brienne’s right hand in his left and strides urgently towards the nearest tent, which turns out to be the armory. “Get out,” he tells the quartermaster inside, hurriedly. “Find something else to do. Now.”

As soon as the officer exits the tent with a small and knowing smile he crushes her to him, his mouth seeking hers, their armor clanging together awkwardly. Brienne laughs at him a little, a chesty laugh that echoes the teasing way her tongue swipes against his. She finds it funny that he wants her, now that she actually believes it. Like it’s a quirk of his, rather than the most understandable thing in the world. Jaime will eventually convince her of that, that she is his ideal match, but they are not there yet.

They make quick work of latches and buckles and straps, pulling pieces of armor off each other and flinging them aside, their mouths flying back to each other at every opportunity. It’s absurd how many layers there are between her hands and his bare skin and they cannot remove them fast enough. When at last she pulls his chest piece off and slips her hands inside his shirt they are cool against the heat of him, making him shiver a little. Her fingers send little swirls of fire chasing her touch all around his back while he reintroduces himself to the long curve of her neck, visiting with lips and teeth just under her jaw. He keeps working at her sword belt with his good hand, intent on his goal, until it slides down around her hips and he can pull it from her, set her steel aside and caress with his fingers the place where it so often sits around her waist.

At any other time their lovemaking would be slow and careful and sweet, but tonight is different. Tonight they have both evaded the Stranger’s grasp again, and it has come very close indeed. Out there only a few hours past he saw a killing blow come within inches of her unguarded neck and shivered at the way she had turned without flinching and struck down her attacker with a single blow, never knowing how close she had been. She has been so bold and so brave and he has to have her, now, without delay.

The quartermaster’s table is cleared hastily; helmets and daggers clatter to the ground in a small avalanche. It’s not ideal for this purpose, not long enough to stretch out on nor wide enough to lay on side by side, but it will take her back pressed against it and will have to do. It’s a sturdy table, at least. It had better be.

Brienne lifts her undershirt with crossed hands and pulls it off over her head in one smooth motion, revealing a marble column of pale skin. He grins, taking a moment to appreciate the sight. A sight only for his eyes, one he is still a little astonished by. As a soldier she should be a nightmare of scars and bruises and on her limbs she often is, but her torso is largely untouched, well guarded beneath the armor he had gifted her. She has small breasts she is still shy of sometimes. He is thoroughly enamored with them, the peaks perfectly sculpted to fit into the palm of his hand, nipples shaped just right for his lips. Her collarbones and graceful neck make her startlingly elegant unclothed, a most unexpected delight from this very unconventional woman. Somehow her body is always a surprise to him, like a present he gets to unwrap again and again.

He must be the one with the hungry eyes now, for she takes in his expression and turns knowing, more self-assured. She never looks so confident as this except when she challenges an opponent to a fight she will certainly win, a fact that is not lost on Jaime. She lays back on the table, her upper body bare, pulling him down with her, legs wrapping around him. Such abandon is unusual for her, before this she has been rather bashful. Her need must be as urgent as his. Her smile is a little sheepish, perhaps she has surprised herself.

He has still more pieces to remove, an arm guard and shin guards and the hook he uses to hold a shield to his right arm, but he lets her pull him down to lie on the table anyway, chasing her lips. All the men in Westeros might think him mad for the nights he has spent sleepless and aching for those lips. Those men don’t know how sweet her kisses are. That’s something only he knows, and it is one of the great secrets of the world. Her kisses, and her thighs, and how soft she is between them. They don’t know the great long limbs of solid muscle and sinew that rival his own strength, nor the tender flesh of her belly, of her breasts. They cannot imagine how it is to have to have that soft skin beneath his cheek, beneath his lips. Hot and willing and his, all his, only his. May every man so short-sighted as to disdain her never find a woman so suited to them as she is to him. They don’t deserve such bliss.

To have her for himself is still a novelty for Jaime, one he might never get over. He doesn’t have to share her or wait his turn. He doesn’t have to hide their bedclothes or stifle the sounds of their lovemaking or slink around like a thief. He won’t hide this. Not even in the middle of the army camp. Let them hear, let all the world see them disheveled and satisfied. He wants everyone to know.

Brienne is more interested in propriety; she will be embarrassed of this later. But she needs. She needs him now, and she knows he wants to be open and unafraid. For him she will allow it, this once.

He stands hurriedly and fumbles with his trousers. Jaime is still not very elegant at accomplishing all of this one-handed, but he makes do. He won’t be able to remove his pants without aid, not when his shin guards are still attached, but he gets them open. Brienne’s raised up on her elbows, looking back at him as he shucks off the rest of his guards and unfastens the hook from his stump. She’s making rather more progress, maneuvering her own trousers down around her hips and kicking them along her legs. There is a small smug smile on her lips that is much like the one she wears she’s beaten an opponent in a swordfight. She looks him up and down as if he is a prize she’s won, and he loves that so much. He loves her so much.

She kicks her trousers onto the floor just as he’s gotten his own most of the way off, and he pulls her towards him by the ankle until her legs hang over the edge and her bottom sits just on the end of the table. She wraps her long legs around his hips where he stands, and their hands tremble in their urgency to touch each other, a kind of fever overtaking them both.

They have not spoken in all this time, but with her mouth out of reach of his kisses she is whispering to him continually, words like _please_ and _Jaime_ and _now_.

Without hesitation he is pressing into her, his whole length sliding inside in a single smooth motion, and they both groan with relief. 

It’s so _good_. It’s been days and days they’ve ached for each other, not having a moment alone in the run-up to the battle, and now the battle-lust is coursing through their veins and twice as strong for being experienced by the both of them. They’re _alive, both_ of them are alive, and so grateful to be here and together.

He takes several deep breaths there, inside her, a blissful smile painted across his face. Then he pulls out again, hearing her sigh as he leaves her, her own sweet smile faltering, and then hears her gasp as he plunges back in. Brienne's muscular legs tighten around him, all of her straining to pull him closer. Jaime’s good hand wanders her body, teasing her breasts, dipping into the wet curls just above where their bodies are joined, until she's pleading with him to fuck her.

They find the rhythm and the table rocks with it, Brienne gripping the sides like it’s going to throw her off. Her face contorts beautifully as he fucks her, long firm strokes, her silky passage caressing every inch of him. She murmurs to him endearments that he absorbs only the tone of, mesmerized by the deep honey of her voice as the words tumble helplessly out of her. His hips shove the table back and forth with every thrust and the strong wood whines under the strain; the threat of breaking the armory table keeps him just grounded enough not to lose himself too soon.  

Brienne unwraps her legs from around his hips and drapes them over his shoulders, something they have not tried before. Her legs are so long she can cross her ankles behind his head. He can hang onto her thighs with both arms and even his useless stump can hold her leg in place. He bends over her now, some of his weight shifted onto the cradle of her thighs, and looks down at her legs on either side of him diving into her glorious cunt where he is sinking into her, and beyond that her face, lips parted and eyes wide. A better view he cannot imagine.

With this angle, his cock drags against something inside her that makes her whine and writhe at every thrust, pleading with him to go faster. Perversely he can’t help but reduce his pace at these demands, pauses inside her for dizzying moments and pulls out gradually with a long inhale, shudderingly slow, then dives back in, making her cry out loudly. Each cry sends a little triumphant thrill through him, makes his whole body hum. Each is a little victory.

Nothing will take Brienne from him - not his judgemental allies or entire armies of enemies, not even death itself. She is his and he is hers and they will not be parted again, not now and not ever. He could tell her this in words and it will sound like the kind of sweet lies lovers will tell themselves, things they would both be skeptical of, knowing that he can promise no such thing. Their whole continent is tearing itself apart and the world as they know it might be irrevocably destroyed and it is foolish to think two people can defy that fate with only love to protect them. But with his body he can tell her the same tale, without lying, and she will receive it as truth, as a simple fact. No force in the world will separate them now. Nothing else is so strong as this.

Slowly his control fades and wildness overtakes him. It’s so good he can’t stand it. She is so soft inside, soft and sweet like spun sugar. She may be as strong as steel and as stubborn as an ox but inside, oh, inside, she is so sweet. Ah, gods. He isn’t going to last much longer.

She moans his name, throaty and commanding, and at this he obeys. _Jaime. Jaime. Jaime._ Fast, sharp strokes now, his hips bucking helplessly. She slides back and he follows her and her legs open wider to embrace him and he has to prop his good hand and his stump on the table for balance and it’s going to be sore later but he can’t feel it now. Had the battle resumed around them he could not stop. He is entirely hers. His orgasm is building up inside him like a long howl and there is nothing he can do to slow its relentless approach.

She says the other thing, the thing that will finish him without fail. _I love you, I love you so much_. He abandons the rhythm and just drives into her then, collapsing, pressing every last inch of himself against her so desperately it slides her back along the table, and he cries out wordlessly into her shoulder. He shudders and spills inside her, two, three, four pulses, urged on by her hands clawing at his back, the answering sound of her wail.

When his vision clears they are lying bonelessly on top of the table, which has acquired a noticeable lean to one side. He is in danger of sliding off her, but Brienne holds him in place easily, and does not seem to mind his weight on her at all. Her lips curl into a sweet smile under his kisses.

Later he will return the favor, put his tongue to work until she pleads for mercy, late at night in the Commander’s tent. The camp revels around them will mostly drown out the cries of pleasure he will wrench from her, mostly. But for now the need abates and they are both of them relieved and happy in each other.

When they sit up the table makes a loud sharp sound and threatens to collapse altogether, and it looks awfully precarious when they restack the equipment atop it. Brienne is much more earnest in her attempt to recreate the quartermaster’s arrangement, even as he tries his best to distract her.

“We musn’t leave this,” she tells him. She is trying to be stern, but a smile keeps threatening to erupt from the corners of her mouth.

“No need to worry,” he assures Brienne, holding her from behind and applying kisses to the back of her neck. They will be proper and composed again when they leave this tent, but he would be tender with her first, a few more minutes. “I hear the Commander is very fond of you. I think he will forgive a few lapses.”

She laughs helplessly. “He had better acquire a new table for the armory. Something has mysteriously rendered it unusable.”

“I don’t know, I can think of some good uses for it. Perhaps we’ll move it into our tent.” He pulls her closer, leaning his head against hers with his arms around her waist. “Brienne…”

“Mmm.” Brienne relaxes into his arms in a brief surrender. There is so much to say, but they don’t say it. Their union is all fighting and fucking, and within that they communicate to each other everything that needs to be said. They stay like this for a few breaths, enjoying each other, before turning to the task of putting together each other’s armor from the messy piles they had left it in.

He kisses every part of her before she can cover it again in metal plate. A sentimental habit she has allowed him, and though she may roll her eyes at it she would be sorely disappointed if he didn’t. Then she pieces him back together with grave seriousness that makes him smile, arranging his armor carefully and properly so that he will be ready to address his forces. She is more than his right hand. She’s the blood singing in his veins, the breath in his body. She makes him alive. Even White Walkers won’t be able to extinguish that, whatever happens to them now. This is the part of him that will live forever.

Then she places the helm on his head and calls him her commander, and he carefully pulls a helmet down around her ears and calls her his lady, and then they are venturing out into the camp again, into the next battle.


End file.
